Taran: Lay of the Wanderer by Ruin
The words. The words the words the words. Chords were almost simpler, melodies picking themselves out of the air in random notes hummed or strummed until something clicked, something sounded good - but words, always the words left him hanging. Iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter in an abab or abcb format. It really should not be this hard. One could not waste parchment by scribbling lines and then crossing them out, either. Too valuable, parchment. Too fragile, as well, to travel well - particularly in this cold. So he had to keep them within his mind, all the snatches and fragments of tales and songs. Writing things down was for finished things, that had to be remembered properly, and ideally for those really long winter storms that kept him in the same room for days on end. He slanted a look at the long-legged tavern maid who'd stolen his blankets. Still asleep. He sighed - he could kick her out, of course, but he'd learned that tavern girls had a longer memory than most of their patrons. A harsh word now could well mean sleeping in the road the next time he came this way. Or the next ten times. He frowned, trying to remember. Ama...Amar? Amey? Amalind. That was her name. He nodded to himself as the introduction resurfaced - but it had been a long night, in all fairness, and his throat was still sore. And he was getting distracted. Pointless, trying to remember her name, when he had songs to write. Parts of three different songs clattered around his mind, clanging for attention, and ran his hand through his unbound hair. Amalind had liked playing with it; women often did. That was a large part of why he bothered. What under the sun rhymes with 'Burus' without sounding contrived? he wondered, aggravated. Not that I could finish but I could at least manage a proper refrain... The room was getting cold; if he wanted his blankets back he'd have to fix that. Setting his battered liltrum aside, Taran swung his legs around and got to his feet, padding over to the fire. Adding wood had its own rhythm; he watched the fire catch in the dry logs and wondered what it must be like to feel fire in the blood - real fire. What did Shadow feel like? And what a question to ask myself. No one sane's ever had an answer. Night, as such, didn't frighten him, and so neither did 'endless night'. I can't explain what I don't understand...better to stick to songs. And the room was warming, with the logs on the fire; one of Amalind's long bare legs was finally emerging from the blankets. Giving the fire a final spark-raising poke, Taran walked over and let his hand brush up along the bare leg in a light caress. (Love songs were easy to write but dangerous to sing, he knew. Even with names changed, singing the wrong song about the blond, blue-eyed girl had gotten him into several meetings with unhappy fiancees. Much safer overall to sing about sleeping with sheep.) "Mmmmm?" murmured Amalind, stretching under the caress. And then, as she peered out from under the blankets, "...'Ow lait z'it?" Taran smiled slightly. "Tis the tenth hour by the light, mistress," he answered, infusing the words with amused, lighthearted teasing. "I hope you slept well." "He'll have my head," moaned Amalind, scrambling out of bed to get her clothes. "Taran, why di'n't ye -" "Amalind," Taran interrupted, firm but not unkind, as he helped her lace her bodice. "If I am presented with beauty, why should I disturb it? Besides - you were tired." "Ohhh...you!" Amalind retorted, hopping as she pulled on her shoes. "I 'ave te work! I'll talk te ye later -" and then out the door she bustled. Taran leaned his back against the closed door, raising his eyes to heaven. "Or, just possibly, I spared myself having to be poetic before a proper morning cup." He hated goodbyes, and pillow-talk could be done by rote; there were only so many things about a woman that were attractive while groggy. It was just a matter of fine tuning for the audience at hand. Company gone, he wrapped himself up in the still-warm blankets and took a seat near the fire, reaching for his liltrum. Music. Rhythm and rhyme and melody. Stories, legends....the words rolled through his mind, the voices of those who'd taught them to him.... One day, he'd even have the time and skill to properly write them down. The Crystal Bowl Sing to me, o story-singer Sing to me of the crystal bowl Once, long ago, there was a Baron who came into possession of a most marvelous artifact. This artifact was a bowl, made - it seemed - of clear, perfect crystal, two hand-widths across. Made by an alchemist of rare skill, the great Philip Highmountain, taught his art by the great DragonVal'sharax, the bowl - when properly filled, and placed, and the right word spoken - would show...not light, nor any reflection, but anything its master wished to see, anywhere in the world. The Baron, when he came into possession of this bowl, was of course delighted. He filled it with water that had been poured through seven layers of the the finest, cleanest white silk and boiled for an hour, as the trader had told him he must. He set it completely in sunlight, and spoke the word that woke it. The water within the bowl stilled, smoother than the finest glass, and shone as if the sun had been trapped within it. It was beautiful, and for a long time the Baron bathed in that light - but at last curiosity overcame him, and he spoke the name of his beloved wife. At once the light faded, and reflected in the still water of the bowl was his wife's image. Oh, not all of her, of course - the bowl was too small for that. The Baron found himself looking at his wife as if through a small window, but perfect and clear, and he could nudge the sides of the bowl to shift the focus of the image. She was embroidering the cuffs of one of his shirts; he could see her hands as they plied the needle. The Baron was delighted. He spoke the word again, and this time the name of his barony; he spent the rest of the day adjusting the focus, watching all of his domain much more thoroughly and closely than even the fastest horse could have taken him. All that day, in his study, he did nothing but watch the world in the crystal bowl, until sunset came and the light in the water faded. Two hands across from rim to rim In small the bowl would show Whate'er its master would ask it And see what he would know Well - nothing would do, the next day, but that he watch again. His wife, his lands...his friends and his enemies. All that he needed was sunlight and a name, and both were in generous supply. The work of the barony languished as its master watched but did not act, until the first cloudy day where there was not enough sunlight to catch it in the water of the crystal bowl. And this became quickly known, so that if a man in that barony wished to know if he might have audience with the Baron, he looked first to the sky - and then toward the keep. And the Baron watched...and watched...and saw - too much. It began when he saw his enemies coming together. The bowl would not echo words to him, only vision, but seeing those opposed to him happy and speaking to one another - what must they be happy about? What must they be speaking about? The Baron grew fearful, and decided to strike first. Strike before whatever plot they must be hatching could come to fruition. He sent the knights of his house to hunt them down, and - charging them with conspiracy - had them hung. Well, the plot was clearly foiled, but the Baron remained afraid. Such a close call - something that, had he not had the crystal bowl, he would never have anticipated. The Baron was unsettled - and set himself to watching friends and enemies alike, so as to finish rooting out the threats to his rule. And threats there were - apparently, everywhere. His close friends, he saw meeting with worried faces. And his wife, his beloved wife and mother of his children - when he studied the glass long enough, he saw her accept a strange man into her private chambers, holding his hands in both of hers. The Baron was enraged. Beyond enraged; there were no words for the wrath he held for such vile betrayal. His former friends, he banished from his lands for their conspiracy - he did not care to find out what it was, or could have been. He did not want to know. And his beautiful, beloved wife...he had her hanged, attending the execution personally. Though he wept to see her die, he raised not a finger nor a breath of voice to spare her life. A shattered trust, a faith betrayed Brought to the light of day A broken heart, a sundered bond Not a word would he say After this second rampage, the Baron's life became a relatively lonely one. Athough he could not bear to look into the bowl as often as he once had, it was still part of his noontime activities; the rest he divided between the previously neglected work of administration, and the raising of his now-motherless children. In these activities, the Baron found a degree of peace - though still, now and again, he would glimpse some truth within the crystal bowl that would demand he take action. So it went for many years, as his eldest son grew to adulthood and prepared to take the reins of governance from his aging father. Finally, he deemed his son truly fit to learn the final secrets - the secrets of the crystal bowl itself. For the bowl would remain long after the old Baron passed on, and he intended that the artifact remain an heirloom of his house. He took the bowl from its locked case, showed his son the process of boiling and straining the water that was to be poured into it. How to place the bowl within a given room to have the best use of such sunlight as would shine into it. And, of course, at the end of it all he passed on the secret word that would bring the bowl's power to life. This done, the Baron left the bowl in the care of another for the first time since acquiring it, and took a somewhat rare walk about his demesne. As always, the Baron found that although the crystal bowl showed him every detail in perfect color, it was a small window through which to appreciate his domain. Images might have every sign of perfection but were somehow less real than being physically in a place. On impulse, he called for his horse and rode as if a young man chasing dreams. Images in the bowl lacked any physical reality; if one touched the water, disturbed it with so much as a stray breath, its images were lost. No feel of wind, no scent of tree or flower, was shared through the artifact - and in all these things, for a few hours, the old Baron reveled. It was a fine day, and he was alive and well; what more could any man have asked? A wild rose was picked for fancy's sake, and held in one hand as he rode into town. Stopping at a tavern for wine to soothe a parched throat, he made a gift of the rose to the tavern-maid who served him the glass; she was unlovely but his spirits were high. When a few of the patrons - far more inebriated - burst into song, those same high spirits let him join in. Rarely had he had such a fine day - not, he realized, in years. Not since the day he had cleansed his domain of traitors and deceivers. Thoughts of that day, and of how his son might one day face the same choice, stole away the baron's laughter. Paying for his wine, he rode back to his keep - thinking on the fragility of life, of loyalty, of friendship, and other such mature matters, his return trip was much more sedate and measured. And silent - at least until he approached the outer gate. His son was waiting for him - and in the dim twilight, was clearly infuriated. "How dare you shame our house!" he snapped. "All these years you have told me about proper conduct, nobility of behavior - and what to I find? Riding like a brigand on the run! Romantic overtures at tavern-women! Singing with drunkards!" Why, the old Baron was stunned. Clearly, his son had followed his day in the crystal bowl, for he had accurately seen everything important that had transpired. But how had he failed to understand it? The bowl showed the most minute of details. A day of watching his father's Light in the crystal bowl When water-filled it saw the world But could not see it whole In a rush of sorrow - now that the truth of past events was clearer to him - the Baron understood what the problem must be. The crystal bowl's most obvious incapability was sound - its master could hear no word spoken, nor the tone of it, and when watching people speak it was the lack most clearly noticed. But the more insidious limitation was simply scope. The bowl was a goodly size for a bowl, at two hand-widths from rim to rim, but it was still a very small window to look at an entire world through. As easily as his son - who loved him, the old Baron knew - had misunderstood a single day of fun, the Baron himself had misunderstood - how much? For how long? And at what great - possibly incalculable - cost? Somewhat to his son's surprise - for the lad had no idea of his father's revelation - the old Baron cried out as if in pain and went as quickly as he could into his keep. It was not hard to find the bowl; he well knew all the rooms in the keep where it could be used for any length of time, and what those times were. Retrieving it, he put it in a sack - knowing it would not chip or break - and back into the saddle he swung with it, riding off into the night. Two hands across from rim to rim Is not so much to see When a barony's entire weight Upon it hung must be Legends abound as to the final fate of the crystal bowl. I have heard it said that the old Baron, mad with grief at the thought he had executed his beloved wife without cause, killed himself shattering the bowl into pieces. I have also heard it said that such an artifact as the bowl would never be so easily broken, and he died trying. Still other tales say that he hid the bowl, so it could not be used, while yet others say he sold the bowl to a glassblower, who made use of it as any man might who had found such a fine crystal bowl in his collection, and so it was lost. Names and places, all facts lost to time and retelling, but this I do know; the Baron's son knew the word and the process that would bring the bowl to life. In the records of his house that word and process might be found again. And the bowl - should it still exist - may be known by its perfection; clear, flawlessly smooth and perfectly round. And though it may seem made of glass the bowl will not shatter, crack or chip - no matter what pressures might be applied upon it. For if it could be broken, the old Baron in his grief would surely have broken it; if it yet remains in the world then no simple force can destroy it. Taran set down his quill with a sigh, blowing gently on the ink to dry it. It wasn't a question of whether he believed the tales. Stories held meaning and purpose beyond the literal, and he knew well enough why he wasn't going to let the tale of the crystal bowl be lost. More than once, remembering the story of the baron deceived had kept Taran from acting on information that otherwise seemed conclusive. I can't control it. I can't shut it out or shut it off. But I can ... can what? Keep a sense of perspective, maybe. Or try to. It was hard, when his capricious taint decided to inform him that someone was thinking ill of him, or his Sight revealed a flaring aura, and over the years he'd come to believe it was always going to be hard. That maybe, just maybe, it was meant to be hard. It's not about controlling the power. It's about controlling how much I let it change me. How much he let it change his view of the world, and wasn't that hard some days... Amalind hadn't come back. Taran found he didn't much care; he'd worked all through the snowed-in day, scribing that story, and burned a candle most of the way down. And Taran wasn't in the mood to deal with his perception difficulties, anyway...at least, he wasn't until his nose informed him there was food outside out his door. And his stomach informed him that in his absorption in Story he hadn't eaten all day. Amalind, I suppose? he wondered - though not with great interest. Not when compared to food. He opened the door, retrieved the (now nearly cold) stew, and delayed his collapse into the bed until after he'd drained the bowl dry. Mmmm. Warm blankets. He woke - much, much later - to the vague sensation of something on top of him, on the blankets. Vaguely aggravated at the idea one of the tavern girls had opted to use him as a cushion or bedwarmer - he very much preferred his bed-company on his own terms - he withdrew one arm from his warm nest of blankets with the full intention of reclaiming his sleeping space - - and his hand brushed something thin and cold, to the sound of angels laughing. Taran sat bolt upright, falling blankets vaguely informing him the fire had died down and the room was cold. And somehow, the senses that had served him well and more than well for the past decade or so had failed him in a big way, because on his lap was...on his lap was... It's magnificent. It was a lot more than that, actually, as Taran reached out to touch (caress?) the perfectly smooth, perfectly crafted body of the lute. Not even a burr or scratch in the polish, no irregularity in the grain or stain, acoustically perfect to reproduce even the lightest tap, as one of his fingernails clicked against the wood. Oh, Light. It was huge, for a lute, but he didn't care. The room's chill was forgotten (as was the fact that someone had managed to get in here to put this near him without his waking) as he lightly, carefully, brushed his fingertips over the strings that glowed with their own cold blue light (seraphite, it has to be seraphite) and then - plucked. The single note was perfect in tone and pitch, resonating through the silence of the room. It didn't even need tuning. Oh, Light. Oblivious to all else in the room, he pulled the Lute onto his lap and ran it through some simple chords. It's not like playing an instrument at all. It's like hearing the music in my head with my ears. Someone had found out how to make his taint work in reverse, given him something to let the music in his mind loose. His fingers moved along the cold frets and shining strings, pouring out...Light-in-sound. He matched his voice to the sound, the inner music critic entirely approving of the strength of his own tenor paired with the Lute's delicate tones. It had been a long time since he had made music purely for himself, no thought of performance or audience, and the Lute's strings were the primary light in the room before his fingers and throat ached enough to stop. He straightened up - rather stiffly, as he had to have been curled around the huge instrument for hours - and only then saw the envelope. With an absent pat of one hand on the strings, as if to say he was only momentarily distracted and would be back, honest, Taran reached over with string-sore fingers to pick it up. It had a seal. Quite a good seal, actually, imprinted clearly in the wax; he studied it in the cold seraphic light. Bird...eagle? And that's a...sunwheel... Well. That answered the question of whether they were mythical, anyway. Unless, of course, it was a forgery. Which was always possible. But - either way, why break in to give him something? Unless it was stolen...priceless as it had to be, who more likely to steal a lute than a bard? On the other hand, why would a thief leave a letter? Very carefully, so as to open the letter without destroying the imprinted seal, Taran slid a fingernail under the wax and carefully pried the letter open, reading the contents by the light of his lute-strings. :Taran Songbird, :Though you hold no familial name, we have seen fit to bestow upon you this attachment to better suit that which we have also gifted upon you this day. :Ask not how we managed to place this item with you while you were sleeping without trace nor sound, or how we have come to know your name. Suffice to say that your work has not gone without notice by those eagles that watch from within the hidden depths of the wilderness. :Eagles and Wildcats alike bid you develop your skills further, Taran Songbird, and do honor to an item recovered from that which was once the avatar of a Dragon. Taran stared at it. Who was watching him? Eagles and Wildcats...Pathfinders and...Kahars? That was some fairly high-level attention...if the letter was genuine. Seals could be forged, after all, and anyone could claim anything in a letter. The reality was that a Freelander bard from nowhere in particular had his arms around a lute that was probably worth more than his whole birth-village. And all he had to prove a legitimate claim on it was a seal that no one would believe and an unsigned letter. On the other hand....it was a truly beautiful lute. And while 'Songbird' wasn't really a name he would have chosen for himself - it brought to mind twittering jays and fluffy pink clouds - he conceded to himself that if that were the price for this Lute he probably would've been happy to call himself "Sir Yaps A Lot After Six Pints". Part of being in his line of work was learning how to make any name work. Songbird was fine. It would stop people asking him what his surname actually was, and save him from having to answer that he'd renounced it. Though it meant actually letting the Lute go for a few minutes, Taran did force himself to get to his feet and carefully put the letter away in his pack, such that the seal wouldn't be destroyed or the letter crushed. It wasn't much evidence, but it was at least not written in his own handwriting. And how had the Pathfinders gotten their hands on it? Raiding a dragon's hoard didn't particularly sound like their line of work, though admittedly what stories there were were rather vague... Well...take the options. Either the letter is genuine, in which case I have impressed the Pathfinders and House Kahar enough - or at least the set-intersection - that they've opted to hand me a huge career boost. Or it's a deception, and when I'm caught with this Lute I'm going to be hung. Ugh. The idea of hiding such a marvel of music making...the musician in him didn't so much rebel as throw a tantrum. The Lute was meant to be played. Admired. Loved. Possibly a little love in there for the lute-''player'' as well, which would certainly be nice. On the other hand, it was also insanely valuable and Nobles had some admittedly warped ideas when it came to things which were expensive - such as only Nobles having any right to own them. Taran stared at the beautiful instrument for - he could not tell how long, wrestling with his bardic instincts and his survival instincts, which were having a battle to the death somewhere in the vicinity of his skull. Finally, with silent apologies to the beautiful thing, he sighed and tucked it away in his pack where its light would not be seen. I'll find someone who can tell me where it might have come from. I'll see if it really is a gift. But there is no way under the sun I am going to let this beautiful thing go from mouldering in a hoard to mouldering in my backpack. If it comes down to it, I test my ownership by owning it. But his fingers positively twitched to coax melody from those shining strings. So help me, I'm going to be so good on this that people weep when I start playing it.'' It was...a start. The liltrum was a clumsy and flawed thing in comparison, barely tolerable...but if he could make the liltrum sing....the Lute would be positively transcendant. It was a start. 627 - Seamel and the Grinning Burus (penned in a long, somewhat narrow-lettered calligraphic script, in a plainly-bound leather volume such as is generally readily available to those willing to pay for them.) It is generally held to be true that any knowledge of Shadow increases one's nearness to Shadow and grants it greater hold over the soul; take ye heed, therefore, of the consequences of curiosity. In the early months of 627, a young lord by the name of Mehler Seamel did vanish from his residence, lost to family and to friends. None spoke ill of him; he was a studious man who lived absorbed in private research, who offered no harm to any. Although a search was conducted, a reward for information offered, the unfortunate man remained missing. Some few days later, however, he returned. Not as Mehler Seamel, but as the Grinning Burus of legend; in this guise he attacked carriages and farms in the lands of Zahir, frightening the villagers of Hedgehem and the townfolk of Fanghill and all those who traveled the roads between after sundown. For some weeks this continued, as the Imperial Watch were called and the guardsmen of Zahir, to defend the people. They were powerless, however, for the "Burus" seemed able to appear and disappear at will, and had no apparent lair for them to lie in wait for him. Matters thus worsened until the "Burus", so emboldened by his evident invincibility, did attack the keep at Silver River. In his attempt to steal a babe of the Lomasa he was captured at last through the efforts of an unusual alliance of mages with the untainted. At this time he was Burus no longer, but discovered to be the missing Mehler Seamel, wearing a mask and a costume similar to the legendary Burus. And although he had been hale and sound of mind before his disappearance, when his mask was removed it was found that Mehler had become irretrievably mad. Artifacts retrieved from the lord that he had not had before his disappearance - particularly those that gave him the semblance of the Burus of legend - were studied by mage and untouched alike, yet seemed to hold no key to this apparent transformation. Imprisoned for his attack upon the child, Mehler disappeared from his cell - although this was later attributed to the actions of a sympathetic mage, for the mad lordling was to had had a hand cut off for his crimes. Indeed there seemed no source for Mehler's powers as the "Burus", for he was not a mage, nor bore he any item that held any discernable power. Mehler himself was ever after a broken man, starting in terror from shadows and the wind in new grass. He spoke in rambling and unconnected phrases of an unnameable Thing that had taken him, taken his self and his identity. taken 'everything' that he had been. Holding the emblem-pendant of his house, he stated that this was all that his captor had left to him. Although stories differ as to how Mehler came to be there, undisputed remains the fact that Mehler came to his end at knife-point, in the streets of Sweetwater Fields. Let here be recorded a truth not widely known; Mehler met his end at the hands of a mage assassin, who made the claim that this was completion of an act begun and retaliation for Mehler studying too closely the matters of Shadow. This warning was offered to the witness of his death: When you stare into the Shadow, it stares back at you. (the rest of that page is left blank; on the next is written "Notes" in a somewhat less formal script) It is my belief that the only act for which Mehler Seamel can be held accountable is the attempted kidnapping of the child, and that even for this one should more rightly blame the state of his sanity rather than true intent to cause harm. Having studied the matter at some length, it is my belief that the man or creature dubbed the "Grinning Burus" by the people of Hedgehem and Fanghill was not Mehler at all, but a mage of unusual skill - and, perhaps, viciousness. For reasons undiscovered Mehler was captured and his mind broken; as the hunt for the 'Burus' increased I believe Mehler was made to serve as the sacrifice that would appease authorities and remove the threat of Imperial justice. This would render his murder a matter of silencing the only possible witness. There is little evidence to support this claim, and it may be discounted as pure speculation; it is herein recorded for the sake of completeness, in the hope that if future events bring pieces of this puzzle to light they may be truly identified. Category:Chiaroscuro Stories